


Borderline

by Ingrid_cxx



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Power Play, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 03:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingrid_cxx/pseuds/Ingrid_cxx
Summary: David crashing at Tom’s for an afternoon nap, and things go wild and way out of line.





	Borderline

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT my work. The author is the brilliant 沈从良. I just did the (pretty crappy) translation.

David Beckham plotted an escape from his own house. Destination: his neighbour’s house five minutes away.  
Even that fingerprint lock failed to keep the professional football athlete out, in fact he chose not to acknowledge it at all as he climbed over the fence into the immaculately manicured lawn, without holding back a gloating whistle at his expertly executed, near perfect landing. But before he could smugly take his next step towards the premises, a piercing siren started to wail, flooding the entire household instantly. Countless sprinklers sprouted from the grassy ground and started spraying water at Beckham.

“Oh Fuck, stop!” Beckham cursed out loud as he dodged and danced helplessly in the middle of the lawn. Any passerby would have to agree that it was quite a scene. He was still swearing while trying to get himself out of the mess when his neighbour darted out into the front yard, waving a formidably thick hockey stick ferociously.

“Are you serious??” Beckham yelled, “this, and that,” he pointed at the hockey stick, then at the little devices, dispersed across the lawn, that had drenched him from head to toe. “Is this necessary?” His vision was blurred by the fine mist of water, but it didn’t stop him from witnessing his wicked neighbour’s hysterical laugh preceded by short-lived shock.  
“Don’t speak, let me remember this moment.” His neighbour said, catching his breath between giggles, “David Beckham trespassing my house, it sure deserves a massive headline to me.” 

“This would deserve a headline in any journalist’s eyes,” Beckham muttered under his breath. In long strides he followed his neighbour across the now dripping wet lawn, and upon hopping onto the doorsteps, mischievously enveloped the beautiful man in his strong embrace. It didn’t occur to Beckham that he very much resembled a golden retriever that had just returned from a swim in a muddy lake, he was cooking up a revengeful act of transferring the moister that lingered on his body to his neighbour. A strand of his effortlessly smooth golden locks found its way past the other man’s collar, dampening the exposed patch of soft skin on the back of his neck. “This is how I thank you for your hospitality, Cruise.”

A cool hand combed itself into Beckham’s hair, in a futile attempt in stopping the intruder’s advances. “Let me go, I gotta go make a phone call,” Beckham’s perfect neighbour, Tom Cruise, said with a hint of exasperation, “unless you want to get knocked out in 20 unpredictable ways by guards from the top security agency in the states. And you need a shower.”  
Beckham looked up and gazed into Cruise’s green eyes, and understood he wasn’t joking. Rather sulkily, he let go and allowed Cruise to push him through the front door into the house. He took one look at the serene interior of Cruise’s mansion, and it became clear that the world’s most famous movie star had been relaxing alone at home right before he barged in. What a lucky man. Not like him.

Cruise picked the phone up on his way to the bathroom, half pushing Beckham with him, and dialled the number of the securities firm to explain the false alarm. Hearing Cruise’s series of sincere apologies in his gentle voice, Beckham felt a slight pant of guilt. If he has just rung the doorbell nicely, he wouldn’t have gotten Cruise into this trouble, nor ruined his peaceful afternoon. But honestly, why does the superstar always have to speak so tenderly to everyone? Thinking so Beckham couldn’t ignore the slight uneasy churn of his stomach.

“David?” Cruise peered into the bathroom, just to find Beckham fumbling with the shiny silver tap knobs on the impeccable walls, replying with an awkward grunt. “I’m going to shut down those sprinklers, or else my lawn is going to turn into a swamp before I know it.” 

“Oh ok,” Beckham said with an amused smile, “I’m not going to drown in here, don’t worry.” “I hope not,” Cruise said with a sigh, and slipped out of the bathroom before Beckham could splash water onto him.

Beckham took a quick shower, but his clothes were still drenched and were clearly unfit for wear. He entered Cruise’s walk-in closet swiftly, and after some effort succeeded in uncovering the small pile of clothing that he had seen Cruise clad in so many times before, amongst the colossal mass of unworn designer garments with price tags still sticking out from the collars. He threw a t-shirt on, and couldn’t help but to notice how the sleeves wrapped tightly around his arm. For the first time Beckham realised what a slight frame his friend had. He shrugged and strolled out.

“Oh, you wore this,” Cruise glanced in his direction, and Beckham was immediately aware of how ridiculous he must have looked, because his friend was clearly straining to hold his laughter in. In fact, he looked great, with his abdominal muscles visibly bulging under fabric of the overly figure hugging shirt. 

“You don’t happen to have some orange juice, do you? I told them I was going out to get some from the store, so I better not go home empty handed.” 

Beckham threw himself onto the squishy sofa, and gleefully sank into it, letting out a faint sigh of relief.

“No, but I could...” Cruise’s hand had yet to be fully raised up before it was pinned back against the sofa by Beckham, the athlete languidly sprawled over him, limbs spread like a sea star as he said, “never mind, I guess I’ll just say I drank it all out of thirst.”

Cruise felt the need for enquiry, but Beckham understood before he tried to ask anything.

“Yes , You’re right, Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz, every one of them, and I mean EVERY ONE, is driving me crazy. Not to mention they are now torturing me, together, for the whole weekend!” Beckham howled as if in pain, “I hate boys.”

“But Cruz is a good boy,” Cruise protested weakly. “You can’t say that just because he’s named after you, that is conjecture.” Beckham accused, waving his arms in disagreement. Cruise’s face coloured slightly, god knows why his friend blushed so easily, even after tanning in the tropics for a good few months.

“Just stating the facts,” Cruise smiled, free of any chagrin of exposure. His smile was still of that hellishly dazzling radian, Beckham always found himself defenceless against the actor’s million dollar smile.

What could be more unlikely than their friendship?

They live together (it is true in a sense); they celebrate over each other’s accomplishments and special occasions; they bring each other to their hometowns (Syracuse and London); go on dates (the use of term is arguable); cheekily exchanging certain pieces of garments from their respective outfits just to piss off their stylists. And Beckham, though not exactly known for his brightness (that is, compared to his undisputed good looks and fame), miraculously was able to vividly remember everything they had done together, be it the places they had been to together, the food they had devoured, the trails they had left in the world.

From his perspective, there were times when he had questioned the platonic nature of their relationship. “Are we really just friends? Are we really not dating?” Yet every time he sets his gaze on Cruise, any traces of romantic ambiguity seem to vanish entirely. Those innocent, humble green eyes always made him think, somewhat tragically, that he might have violated their beautiful friendship with such speculations. 

Yet when night fell, and Beckham stared at the gloomy darkness of his ceiling, Victoria deep in slumber by his side, he couldn’t help but to think, was is really, really just his over interpretation?  
He thought Cruise didn’t want their friendship to be over exposed, over interpreted, hence the expensive restaurants and private club houses where privacy is better guaranteed, but when Cruise volunteered to grab a beer with a surprised and overjoyed Beckham at a small little bar on Notting Hill, the theory was overthrown. The dim palish lamps and alcohol changed everything. They sat at ordinary seats like any two absolutely mundane people would, no reservations, no celebrity exclusives, only a battered wooden table and a couple of drinks. By his side: Hollywood’s most gorgeous actor, sufficient to squeeze a shriek of disbelief and delight out of anyone in the room, and compel them to take a photo with their cell phone. But Cruise seemed unbothered by the fuzz, he spoke in a casual tone like he would in private, laughed his signature laugh, clenched him fists in anguish at the exciting football match on tv. Even though both of them had known pictures of them hanging out in a bar would be all over the internet, especially tabloid media sites within half an hour.  
And all that body contact, god, that had proven to be the deadliest of all for Beckham. The cameras had never captured such details, but Cruise’s relatively low body temperature by nature propelled him to seek for sources of heat, which in many occasions happen to be Beckham, who in Victoria’s words, had a constant body temperament of a “sun in flames”. The wife refused to rest within his embrace at night for this particular reason, and yet Cruise has also expressed a certain level of favour to this trait of his, and had always sprung at every chance to cling onto or lean against the British man’s tall strong frame. It was so distracting, that Beckham often lost track of what he had been saying mid-sentence, with his poor attention drawn exclusively to Cruise’s touch, that was not unlike the sensation one would get from the grey, drizzly skies of London.  
He did not understand why, having a perfectly disciplined biological clock as a star athlete, and hence the habit of rising and snoozing early, would he drop virtually everything at one single call from Cruise at mid night, and go whizzing off with him on their motorbikes. They rode, in the warm, arid late summer breeze, through the serene neighbourhood of Beverly Hills, the wondrous coasts of Malibu, and never fatigued.  
But Beckham never felt that it was his place to talk to Cruise about a “relationship”. He felt content and discontent, he was full and insatiable, he wanted to be gluttonous but feared hysteria, especially when he knew so well that all could have been destroyed by one false move. However insignificant that snap of a finger. 

He lay on Cruise’s couch, drowsily nodding to sleep, he didn’t lie about being nearly drained of life by his boys at home. A nudge from a hand.

“Go sleep on the bed, I don’t want your club to raise hell when you wake up with a sore back sleep on that.” It was Cruise’s voice from above.

Beckham groggily got up and obediently shuffled towards the bedroom as told, “then tell them to fuck themselves, and tell them you’re going to buy me from them.” He was teetering on the brink of consciousness, and had no idea of what was spilling from his lips. He didn’t even catch Cruise’s reply. He also failed to notice, despite having visited the mansion for countless times, that Cruise was not leading him to the guest’s quarters.  
Beckham had the most refreshing afternoon nap he had ever had since childhood, and when he opened his eyes, the lazy vibe still lingered, off setting the unfamiliarity of waking up in a house other than that of his own. The even and mellow breathing that sounded softly next to him made Beckham froze for a second. It was the first time he had shared a bed with Cruise, and he had to remind himself that it didn’t herald any beginning of a new chapter.

Cruise lay tranquilly at half a forearm’s length — shielding his body was a soft blanket, on which Beckham was lying upon — he seemed so much younger that his true age, at least ten years. It of course it was probably his youthful face that mesmerised him, and caused him his illusion, for it was only when he talked to Cruise did Beckham remember the 13 years he was, in fact, in his senior, through his extensive knowledge, and the eloquence and charisma in his demeanour that had captured the attention and worshiping of so many. He lay there, curled up snugly under the protective canopy of bedsheets, Beckham suddenly sensed the fragility of his friend, something he had never seen on him, not even a shred of it. This in a sense conjoined them, or at least drawn Beckham to Cruise, and allowed him to more thoroughly know the other man in a completely new light.  
Beckham stared at Cruise’s perfectly shaped lips (not “near perfection”, but absolute perfection), they were of a pale shade of primroses, and were slightly parted in relaxation. He thought, a gentle peck wouldn’t hurt. This time they didn’t go anywhere, didn’t say anything, they were only surrounded by Mr Cruise’s furniture. Mr and Mrs Cruise’s furniture.  
He cautiously edged himself towards Cruise, and though his movements seemed minor in comparison to the hurricane that vigorously whirled within him, they were enough to cause a dent in the soft malleable mattress underneath the two of them, inevitably waking the man next to him. His eyelids fluttered open, and those viridescent eyes peered out at Beckham from under that dark ruffled fringe, with a fiery gleam of flame dancing in them. “David, what are you doing?” Cruise was asking a question, yet there was no suspense of enquiry in his calm, drowsy voice. His breathing quickened noticeably, and the sound of it was heavenly.  
“Nothing.” That was all Beckham could manage before pressing himself against Cruise, and, with one hand on the back of his head, kissed him.  
He would have be lying if he said he had never before imagined the taste of those lips, but he never expected them to have that minty coolness of theirs. And the devilish softness and tenderness of them. Cruise’s skull is small enough to be fully supported by Beckham’s palm. The gesture was originally to stop the man from jolting away at the unanticipated kiss — he was determined to make the contact enduring enough to be called a kiss. Yet surprisingly, the expected struggle and resistance were absent, and Cruise let Beckham passionately nibble his lips.  
Beckham was quick to start imagining the number of actresses that had kissed Cruise throughout his career, the number would have certainly been staggering, he decided. What about men? If the well-acclaimed Tom Cruise had a gauge for kissers, where would he, David Beckham be placed? His ludicrous thirst for competition had gotten into the way, Beckham thought he would have performed much better otherwise.  
He backed away, and saw that Cruise was utterly calm, seemingly unaffected by the kiss. He didn’t quite know what to feel about it.  
“David, what are you doing?” Cruise asked again, Beckham felt it this time, something unquenchable was about to spring from the earths of him heart, he just needed the irrigation, and a streak of sunlight.  
“Why am I in your room?” Beckham asked. Why am I not in the guest quarters? Why am I not in anywhere else?  
Cruise smiled, that curve of his lips and those tiny creases at the corner of his eyes were woven into such a beautiful picture that Beckham felt his heart quicken, pounding violently in his chest.  
“Why do we drink together? Why do be ride together? Why do people do anything, David?” Cruise lay his cheek against the pillow, his words quiet and calm, but there was not a hint of cheekiness in his smile. The curtains of the bedroom were not drawn, and the late afternoon Californian rays cast down specks of illumination on Cruise’s face. Beckham found himself incapable of finding the accurate vocabulary to describe how handsome and gorgeous Cruise was. Beckham had never felt attractive in front of Cruise, the pride of being the golden boy of the football field always dissipated soundlessly when he was with this man, but it hadn’t been until that moment that he fully gave in to, and knelt before the other man’s great beauty. The absurdity of his emotions and his adoration for Cruise swelled, and could no longer be barricaded.  
“Because you like it. And you think I do too.” Beckham had to steady his voice.  
“So do you?”  
“Of course, you manipulative, foxy witch,” Beckham replied as his attention steered itself towards the neckline of the mauve shirt Cruise had on.  
“Wizard.” Cruise corrected.  
“Witch.” Beckham insisted. All of a sudden everything that was about to happen seemed as though they were always meant to happen, including the tear of fabric at the neckline. Everything was foreseeable. In reach. Cruise reached out and flung an arm around Beckham’s neck, the beating of his pulse was strong and clear against the back of his neck, which was heating up against the soothing coolness of the wrist. His skin was burning with desire.  
They kissed ferociously, as if one of them was angered by the insensitivity of his opponent before, and the other a slick manipulator in intimacy. Beckham was never as focused, as he parted Cruise’s lips and kissed him with all his might, intruding with his flaming desire, until the other man was almost unable to hold back a moan. He wriggled in the bedsheets as if asking for more, and God, did Beckham hope that he was the only lucky fella ever to had had the pleasure of witnessing such a sight.  
Their brief separation caused Cruise to swallow discontentedly, Beckham reached over and yanked back the heavy broadsheets, a fury of warmth overwhelmed him, as he shifted on top of Cruise and enclosed the other man in his dominating pose, pinning him on the mattress. He had been unsure as to whether he would be able to adapt to the strong sturdy curves of a man, but all such thoughts vanished without a trace as Cruise swayed his hips slowly and rubbed his cock against Beckham’s, nibbling on his own lips in an air of agonising anticipation. Their trousers were still in place, though the pieces of fabric (Beckham was wearing a pair of denim trousers) between them only heightened the sensual stimulation. They were way past teenage, way past the time when they used to get stimulated by the slightest rub at the crotch, yet neither of them would relent at clawing and grabbing the other man’s hips to bring them closer, as they twisted and collided like two straying currents.  
Beckham stared deep into those pine green eyes that were drenched in surges of passion, and reluctantly admitted that he had been the hunted one in their intimacy. But the hunted could also hunt. He started kissing Cruise more aggressively, the other man had already had one sinful hand down his unzipped jeans, grabbing his cock insulated only by his boxers. Beckham was trembling in pleasure and exhilaration even before Cruise did any squeezing with his hand, out of want he planted steamy, forceful kisses on Cruise, from his brows all the way to his adam’s apple, and in the process of doing so, successfully left a trail of moisture on his face — Beckham couldn’t say he was exactly proud of his work, but of course disrupting perfection is always pleasurable as hell. He complacently looked down on his “masterpiece”, smiling cockily. Cruise squeezed a little too hard on his crotch vengefully. It was kind of painful.  
“I’m not going to be mad, but you are going to pay for it,” Beckham half teased. But Cruise was undaunted, and simply raised his eyebrows at the remark.  
“What exactly are you trying to make me pay, boy?” Cruise smiled a satisfied smile as he saw Beckham being angered by the dismissal. Then his shirt got torn apart by those inked hands of the athlete.  
“Fine,” Cruise shrugged, eyeing the torn shirt lying helplessly on the bedroom floor with with mild regret. He actually liked that shirt. “There goes twelve hundred bucks.”  
They both cracked up. Beckham’s lips were searing, and when he stared kissing Cruise’s chest, he squirmed slightly at sensation, burying his face deeper into the covers. But he wasn’t going anywhere, he was trapped by the strong limbs of David Beckham, who was still in that incredibly skin tight t shirt. The scene was nonchalantly sexy.  
Cruise felt as though he had plunged head first into an ocean of pleasure as Beckham sucked at his nipples, he panted uncontrollably. The blond man in his arms kissed him, caressed him so intently that for a moment Cruise felt as if he were the most important being on earth to him. He reached under Beckham’s shirt, and with trembling hands caressed his abdomen tenderly. He had playfully touched those faultlessly ripped muscles of his before, and even went so far as to joke about it, but it had never been like this. He pressed his palm against it, and felt the firmness and warmth of the muscles beneath his hand.  
“You’re nipples are sensitive aren’t they?” Beckham commented in an ostensibly careless tone as he raised his gaze for the first time in a while, “I want to put you in some... different clothes. You might not be able to take it.” He massages the Cruise’s nipples as he spoke, eyeing him mischievously.  
Cruise let out a gasp, and even more carelessly dropped a bomb, “yeah, you know sometimes they get... uncomfortable, in premieres.”  
The images of Cruise walking down the red carpet, smiling and waving graciously for photo ops in his impeccable tuxedo, with his nipples pink from stimulation was stuffed into Beckham’s thoughts. The Brit almost had his mouth hung open in disbelief, and he was more sure that ever that Cruise was a cunning, manipulative witch. And he didn’t mind that one bit.  
Cruise resumed kissing Beckham, with his head cocked to one side he passionate pecked and licked the other man’s lips, as he pulled down his own trousers obediently.  
“You look like a thirsty whore, tell me honestly, how long have you been wanting this?” Beckham, breathing heavily, proceeded to remove his shirt that had been lingering on his arm. Cruise started caressing Beckham all over, his broad shoulders, strong chest and waist, his voice was raspy with lust.  
“I can neither confirm nor deny details of any operation without the Secretary's approval,” he said. Beckham barely restrained from laughing out loud at his wicked humour.  
“Condom,” he reminded the other man. Cruise eyed the night stand next to the bed, and retrieved a box of rubbers from a drawer. Beckham took one and put it on his cock, he wanted to let Cruise do it, but he couldn’t bear the wait. God knows how long that witch is will fuzz with this, he thought.  
Beckham smoothed out the lubricant all over his fingers, but Cruise had already spread his legs apart before he was done, and suddenly he became unsure about his pace. “Oh please can you just let me do my thing,” Beckham said, half annoyed at his own uncertainty, and accidentally squirted an excessive mass of lube onto his hands. He sighed and rubbed it into Cruise’s ass, that opening obscured by his bubbly ass cheeks contracted vigorously at contact with the cool watery paste. “Sorry, “Beckham wasn’t sure why he was apologising.  
Cruise’s legs were spread wide apart, but Beckham regretted mildly for not being able to see that round plump ass of his in its entirety.  
“You want me to turn around?” Cruise asked, as if reading his mind. Beckham nodded, and he did, and the next moment the actor’s round ass was displayed in full view in front of Beckham, his fingers that had dug into the other man was pushed deeper into his body with his movements. He busied himself with kissing Cruise’s hair and neck as he slowly inserted the third finger. His thick fingers rubbed against the inner wall of Cruise’s rectum, causing his to moan softly into the pillow.  
Beckham pushed his pants down to his thighs, and massaged his cock to relieve his irrepressible boner as he pours more lube onto the erected organ, his fingers still gently thrusting inside Cruise. Beckham had had ample experience with women in bed, hence his rich knowledge of various ways to stimulate and excite vaginas, although he wasn’t sure whether those techniques applied to prostates, he assumed prodding deeper couldn’t be faulty. Until he could no longer resist the stimulating sounds produced by the lube and his fingers.  
“I’m going in,” he grunted, Cruise nodded and glanced sideways in his direction, those illuminated eyes were so lyrical and enchanting, like a song of Siren, that even in such a situation, Beckham couldn’t bring himself to look away. He gradually, steadily pushed his cock inside the other man, he could see expressions of both pain and ecstasy blooming on the exquisitely beautiful profile of Cruise’s face, and he wouldn’t be surprised to see tears rolling down his face.  
Beckham’s chest was firmly pressed against Cruise’s smooth back, they were both hotter than fire. He rubbed against the other man ferociously, as sweat filled the near- non- existent gap between the two.  
As Beckham started thrusting, Cruise’s silent sobs of pleasure fuelled his striving towards climax, like an ascending rollercoaster. He still couldn’t believe he had in his arms Hollywood’s most celebrated actor, and he was fucking him. He knew Cruise would talk dirty to please him, he would twist his body to perform alluring gestures only for him. At that moment, Beckham felt as though he was Cruise’s master, we was the world’s master.  
After a while of thrusting, Beckham started focusing on looking for Cruise’s sensitive spot. He retracted his cock, and flipped the other man over, he knew that some people’s “g spot” lay closer to the front.  
It probably was a mistake. Beckham realised, in despair, that the sight of the tear streaked of Cruise got him titillated even more. He stuffed his cock back insides the other man’s body, and fiercely thrusted a few time. He was determined not to cum so soon.  
“You’re... too thick.” Cruise said weakly.  
Beckham gloatingly brought his manhood deeper into Cruise, and said, “you’re too tight.” The tip of his cock finally hit a spot inside Cruise that made him recoiled sharply, and Beckham knew that he had found what he had been looking for. The poor actor didn’t even have time to catch his breath before being hoisted up against the bed posts, and literally fucked senseless by the younger man.  
Beckham, buried deep to the hilt felt like he finally was fully inside Cruise and his world, and had colonised him in his own way. Every penetration forced a small gasp out of Cruise, causing him to tighten his hips. He held onto Beckham as if for his dear life, unwilling and unable to let go of the toned torso of him. They fucked hard, wildly and ravingly, their scents merging together as they rode on towards sensual exaltation.  
“I’m cumming, “ Beckham grunted, as he nipped at Cruise’s bright red ear. Cruise nodded, and shakily asked, “wanna cum on my face?”  
Beckham gawked at his invitation, before regretfully shaking his head, and through clenched teeth he said, “next time, next time.” He released it all, as he held Cruise close and relished the aftertaste of great gratification. It felt so good, so blissful, that both of them failed to remember something important.  
For instance, Katie who had just returned from a shopping spree.  
Beckham heard the turning of the doorknob, but there simply was far from sufficient time for him to react. The fact that he was still inside Cruise wasn’t helping. He looked at the bedside lamp forlornly, desperately hoping it wasn’t going to end up smashed on his head.  
The woman screamed in a fit of fury and ran outside, slamming the door behind her. They heard the sound of an engine starting and tires screeching outside.  
“How bad was that?” Beckham asked.  
“Very bad. Very bad indeed.” Cruise managed a weak smile. Beckham noticed his body temperature dropping drastically.  
“I’m sorry.” Beckham said. It was a sincere apology.  
Cruise shook his head.  
“Why do people do anything?”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this is a entirely fictional work of real person slash.


End file.
